| Mashed
potatoes, chocolate and evil plots of the God of Make
Whitni Fat
By Whitni Webb
Septemer 17, 2007 | I think the God of Weight Gain
has his eye on me. No matter what I do, he always seems
to find a way to screw up my plans. All I want is a
beautiful figure, is that too much to ask for? I'll
even work for it, I swear! But no, the God of All Things
Fried and Chocolate Covered will not allow me to give
up my allegiance.
Take yesterday for example.
I wake up to my stomach rumbling for that pudding
buried deep inside the fridge. It smells rich and chocolaty,
and is whipped to the consistency of a heavenly cloud.
Do I falter? Certainly not. I reach for my gritty, pseudo-chocolate
Slimfast, gulp down the disgustingly coarse liquid,
and head swiftly out the door.
All goes well, until lunch. The cheese is ooey-gooey
and melts all over the pan. The onions, peppers, mushrooms,
and olives call out to me "We're healthy! Go ahead and
have a slice of pizza. Heck, have two? It's twice the
serving of vegetables!" The smell of dough and tomato
sauce teases my nostrils. But do I give in? No, I eat
my watery, tasteless salad instead. There isn't even
any real dressing on it! If I haven't lost a pound today
I may cry.
Things continue on the way they normally do. I keep
myself from the pudding in the fridge by focusing on
"The Biggest Loser" reruns. If they can do it, then
so can I! But then I get bogged down again when the
reunion show comes on, and they are all on their way
back up the scale.
At this point, I would usually cave to some sort of
comfort food. Maybe some rich, vanilla ice cream with
almonds, cherries and chocolate syrup all over. But
instead, I head to the gym, quite possibly my least
favorite place in the world. All this suffering had
better be worth it. As I start to my run on the elliptical
machine, I can't help but to compare the place to a
torture chamber. Not only are you in there, causing
physical pain to yourself, but also emotional strain
when you see the Size Ones prancing around in their
tight little spandex shorts, with their toned appendages
and their perfect abs. It's enough to make a person
eat an entire birthday cake, candles and all!
But I must resist the urge to give up and go home.
I shut my eyes, tune in to the sweet voice of Greta
Salpeter, and let her serenade me. I focus on my breathing,
and attempt to ignore the burning sensation going through
my legs. My head begins to swing back and forth, my
stomach giving into nausea. Half an hour on this thing
could make a grown man cry. Torture chamber indeed.
I head to the marketplace for dinner afterwards. It
always seems easier for me to eat healthy after working
out. The mashed potato demons are quiet; the fried chicken
nightmares have been stilled. I feel quite accomplished
with myself. I've prevailed against you God of Taste
Buds! Only one more meal and I'm good to go.
What the hell is this? The salad bar is cleaned out?
The smoothies are no longer being served? Even the somewhat
healthy foods like pasta and barbecue chicken are no
longer there. The Marketplace closes at 9 p.m., not
8:30. If I had known the food servers were working for
God of Make Whitni Fat I simply wouldn't have come.
But still, I'm fatigued, desperately hungry, and my
card has already been swiped. No need to waste a meal
plan on pure pride. Defeated, I head to the only line
still open.
This hamburger would usually be divine, with its grilled
goodness, creamy mayonnaise, soft bun and caramelized
onions. But instead it just tastes like empty calories,
and shame. The onion rings glisten with flavor, and
seem to taunt me, saying "Ha ha, we knew you couldn't
make it. Haven't you figured that out by now?" I stuff
them in my mouth, trying to quiet them. The God of All
Things Delicious has beaten me, but only for now.
I think I'll have that pudding when I get home.
NW
RB |
